


Lilly white and poppy red

by Mossbride (Morbidfeatures)



Series: Words [2]
Category: House of Wax (2005)
Genre: Dogs, F/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25452163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbidfeatures/pseuds/Mossbride
Summary: Lily white and poppy redI trembled when he laid me outYou won't feel a thing, he saidWhen you go down
Relationships: Bo Sinclair/Original Female Character(s), Vincent Sinclair/Original Character(s)
Series: Words [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1425526
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

"Don't cry." The hat-wearing brother breathes onto your lips. Sucking your ear as the other one, Bo cups your cunt, sliding a thick finger in. The dry rasp brings tears.

"Pretty thing like you should smile." The finger crooks trying to bring wetness.

"You were creaming for us yesterday." Your breathing comes rougher, after weeks of being held here. Leashed and collard like a pet, your mind escapes to blissful nowhere during sessions.

You can't help but emit panicked please as Bo slid his other hand onto your hip

He gives your ass a hard slap.

Your nipple is sucked by a roaming mouth. The hot sensation inspires a new wave of denials. Refusals. You stare forward unwilling to look at the two men. There is a sketch of an old man on the wall, detailed wrinkles must have hurt the artists' hands. 

Bo moves to the front pressing the head of his cock into your dry passage, behind you there's a sound of a zipper, over the ground shoulder the drawing is still visible.

The bell of your dog collar rings frantically as the pace grows faster. 

"Fuck, baby, let me hear you."

A small moan escapes as you reach your peak. A crescendo that humiliates.

The ending is the same as every other time, they both finish inside and leave you lying on the dog bed afterward without a backward glance.

The first days you felt dirty, rotten to the core, and tearing at the seams you cried and screamed until falling into tired sleep. Now though, it's just relief that the deed is done.

You know your captivity won't last forever, each day the brothers will grow more and more tired, inching closer to the day you die. 

As their cum dries between your thighs you lie back and glare at the ceiling in cold calculation. Escape is your only option.

They have you in a room downstairs, chained to a metal pole by your neck and feet. You eat here, they hose you down here, the only time you are free from the chain is when you use the bathroom but there is always someone with you.

Even if you somehow manage to get the collar off there's a big wrench in the cog. The third brother Vincent.

This room is evidently his workplace. His back is usually to you, hunched over a sketchbook. Unlike his brothers he doesn't talk and hasn't beat or harmed you, probably would if pushed. The first day when all you did was cry he stuffed a rag into your mouth, besides that accurance he doesn't acknowledge your presence in the room except for the occasional glare that makes you cower into the dog bed.

That aside you'd rather deal with him rather than his brothers.

Your brainstorming stops short when the thud of footsteps trudge down the stairs. You know it's him. He doesn't like being in the room while his brothers do the deed. Does he feel guilty? Doubt it. It's more likely he just doesn't like all the noise.

He appears, a tall figure marching in. Ready to continue sketching and planning in his desk. Despite the fact he never raised a hand in violence you still try to not catch his attention. The stupid bell raises with each breath so you can't keep completely silent.

One particular ring makes you flinch. His black gaze snaps towards you and a dry sob is caught.

He kneels in front of you. An involuntary shiver starts at the base of your spine, this close he smells of sandalwood and pine. Contrasting with the heady veil of sex and sweat that permeates from you. The horror that is the wax mask conceals his expression, what he wants... 

Don't hurt me. The words don't make it out

Vincent moves and you hit your head against the wall backing away. He holds up two fingers and splays them then motions to your legs.

Your eyes water, your pussy aches from the near-constant attention of the other brothers, if you have to bear the weight of this one too…..

But you have to. 

With a sniffle you open your legs, leaning back into the fur, delving into a safer place, chanting religiously against tears of despair. Survive survive survive survivesurviesurvive… 

A wet towel touches your sore lips. Confused, you look down to see him press the towel and scrub.

Vincent wipes away the crusty cum from your thighs, shame is what you think you should feel but he does this carefully. The mask not showing disgust or smug laughter, it's wonderfully blank.

When done he throws the towel in a dirty pile and walks to his desk. Continuing working.

You lay stunned for a second. The barest hint of an idea forms

Does he feel guilty?

Eyes trailing his back seated and illuminated by an orange light, his arms move with precision over the paper and though you can't see it you understand he is as gentle with the charcoal as he was with the rag. 

"Thank you." Not reaching a whisper you didn't expect a response.

"Welcome


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of a plan

The girl is dressed in one of his old shirts, her original clothing had long since been disposed of. With no reasoning that there's no point if it's just going to get dirty at the end of the day. He hardly thought about it but when he had seen her shivering after her shower the urge suddenly stuck him to offer you a small bit of modesty.

Now he's drumming a pen furiously onto a wooden carving, reaching for an idea, he comes up with air

His eyes flicker to the form in the corner dog bed 

You are staring at the ceiling

Sight glazed and fingers rubbing the hem of his shirt. 

There are no windows but the bright bulbs grant him view of you in an ethereal light with specks of dust forming a halo.

It's obvious why Bo chose to let this girl live.

You and others like you were meant for the light of the sun while he should slither in dark. To peak his eyes from the safety of depth.

It's not fair.

And now you've become a stolen drop of sunlight in his workroom. Silent except for the rattle of that God awful dog collar around your neck.

His mind drifts back to the poetry book he found amid a your belongings. It's pages yellow and dog eared, well loved. No credit cards, cell, pager or fancy clothes in the backpack. Just a book. Why was it so important to you?

His fingers twitch with the urge to sketch.

"Honey, I'm home." He hears Bo call from upstairs. His joking tone informing him of the good mood he is in. Must have been a slower day then usual at the shop.

From the corner of his eye he sees you stir at the call. 

"There's my pretty doll"

You strain to give a small smile like they commanded you to. The bitter taste of acid sears the back of your throat.

He threads his fingers into your matted hair. And a chair creaks, Vincent leaves as always.

You rub your head against Bo's leg, snaking a hand to grip the slowly hardening cock in your hand.

He hisses in approval. Murmuring a swear. He smells of sweat and oil. Messaging the back of your neck with his ring finger. Despite the overwhelming sensation, the back of the retreating brother is all you see.

If there is even a hint of human emotion you'll exploit it. Anything to get out of here.

That's what you think about as you take Bo's cock in your mouth, as he grips your hair for dear life and as the salty taste of cum spirts on your tongue.

Vincent comes back intent on gazing anywhere but you. That is until he takes a seat back at his desk. You expected him to hunch over his work however, instead he slides a chair to where you lay.

The salty taste of cum that stain the side of your mouth burn.

His head is tilted and although the mask obscures his features you know his gaze is solely focused on you. Charcoal pencil moving.

He is drawing me? Hate, humiliation, the sting just left by his brother's passion and the indignity of it all wells up inside you. He's doing this now at your most vulnerable for what?

Must have been a quick line sketch because it's over in a minute. 

Then he cleans you again. Patton's a napkin from a local burger joint to your face.

He keeps it impersonal, leaving right afterwards and that's fine. The only bright spot to your captivity climbs onto the pet bed with you.

You thread your fingers into the fur.

"Hey, Jonsey." You laugh but if others could hear they would say it sound more like sobbing


	3. Chapter 3

The girl is dressed in one of his old shirts, your original clothing had long since been disposed of. With reasoning that there's no point if it's just going to get dirty at the end of the day. He hardly thought about it but when he had seen you shivering after your shower the urge suddenly stuck him to offer you a small bit of modesty.

Now he's drumming a pen furiously onto a wooden carving, reaching for an idea and comes up with air.

He pitched a fit at the first suggestion of you staying down here. He didn't want unnecessary noise to distract from his work and that's what the tiny thing his brother decided to spare would bring. 

But Bo doesn't take a no lying down 

His eyes flicker to the form in the corner dog bed 

You are staring at the ceiling

Sight glazed and fingers rubbing the hem of his shirt. 

There are no windows but the bright orange bulbs grant him view of you in an ethereal light with specks of dust forming a halo.

It's obvious why Bo chose you to live.

You and others like you were meant for the light of the sun, mud and grass with a coccaphany of laughter while he should slither in dark under earth. To peak his eyes from the safety of depth and only shape perfection without being.

It's not fair.

And now you've become a stolen drop of sunlight in his workroom. Silent except for the rattle of that God awful dog collar around your neck.

His fingers twitch with the urge to sketch.

"Honey, I'm home." He hears Bo call jokingly from upstairs. Must have been a slower day then usual at the 'shop.'

From the corner of his eye he sees you stir at the call. 

Vincent smooths the line of a nose gently with a eraser to stretch the image.

Charcoal shines his thumb.

"There's my pretty doll"

You strain to give a small smile like he commanded you to. The bitter taste of acid sears the back of your throat.

He threads his fingers into your matted hair. And a chair creaks, Vincent leaves as always.

You rub your head against Bo's leg, snaking a hand to grip the slowly hardening cock in your hand.

He hisses in approval. The back of the retreating brother is all you see.

If there is even a hint of human emotion you'll exploit it. Anything to get out of here.

That's what you think about as you take Bo's cock in your mouth, as he grips your hair for life and as the salty taste of cum sports on your tongue.

He comes back intent and gazing anywhere but you. That is until he takes a seat back at his desk. You expected him to hunch over his work again but instead he slides a chair to where you lay.

His head is tilted and although the mask obscures his features you know his gaze is solely focused on you. Charcoal pencil moving.

He is drawing me? Hate, humiliation, the burning just left by his brother's passion and the indignity of it all wells up inside you. He's doing this now at your most vulnerable for what?

Must have been a quick line sketch because it's over in a minute. Then he cleans you again.

He keeps it impersonal, leaving right afterwards and that's fine. The only bright spot to your captivity climbs onto the pet bed with you.

You thread your fingers into the fur.

"Hey, Jonsey." You laugh but if others could hear it would sound more like sobbing


	4. Chapter 4

He gives you a straw to drink water out of. Holding the glass steady as you take hearty gulps, uncaring of the stream flowing down your through the despite his grip. He helps you sit up and adjust the chains when it strains too much. 

Unlike yesterday you make sure your short interactions are layered in sugar. He's a killer but he feels sorry for you. You saw the tremble of his finger tips, slight enough to strain your eye sight.

You compliment his little wax figure on the desk, small delicate winged insect A shyly whispered. 'Did you make them? They're lovely.' 

Ask what time is it and sound friendly without seeming suspicious.

He stays silent despite your attempts. Plus last time you made too much noise he threw freezing water as a punishment, swearing that he can do much worse if you kept….. 

You give up for the time being and lean back onto the lumpy dog bed. Almost wishing Bo would come and fuck you just so you can change the positions of your aching back.

Kidnapper or not Bo is handsome with classic features, smooth drawl, and it makes you wonder why he didn't get a girl from a dive bar like a sane human being would.

Then again it would be hard to do all this to a partner who can tattle to the police afterwards. He wants someone at his mercy.

That's what gets Bo off, control. You share this room only temporarily with Vincent. When the older brother is bored with you you'll join the ranks of wax figures in town.

Unless you can stop it.

He doesn't like the collar. His good eye glimmers in distaste.

You pull at it a little, looking down at the tag that jingles along with the bell. You forgotten about it after the third day, the humiliation faded but now you're aware of the word scribbled on the tag

'DOLL' too tacky for his taste perhaps?

You spy an open book on the desk..

"What are you working on?" You lick your dry lips, his shoulders and back show no sign of having heard you. 

Distantly you hear the sound of a tv running upstairs, canned laughter after jokes digs the silence between you and the giant man into your skin.

"I'm alone….please...talk to me." Your voice cracks mid-sentence, beyond caring at this point. However the hitch catches his attention.

He looks back and the light is a flimsy weak source that only manages to show the curve of his masked cheekbone, no eyes or mouth, just the awareness of his gaze on you.

Steady streams of silent tears come despite how parched your mouth is, this is a trick, you are going to slowly work yourself into this man's skin to buy time to escape but you are also desperate to use your voice for something other than moaning and crying. To have a conversation with someone so you'll feel you exist.

"Brown cicada."

Your breath catches and you tentatively ask. "Tell me more about it."

"They are common." he begins. "You see them everywhere especially in the daytime and the evening."

"I can hear them all the way down here how didn't you go crazy?" You murmur. Eyes drooping.

"They are comforting." The trill they admit is a lullaby to him. In college he wanted nothing more than to hear them again, nights were unusually silent, he had a hard time sleeping. He grabs his current piece holding it up to the light, maybe she could see the tiny loving details, maybe she couldn't. It's a comfort peace more than anything he had planned on heading it displayed outside. "Cicadas have prominent eyes set wide apart, short antennae, and membranous front wings." He recited tracing a fingertip on the delicate wing. "They have an exceptionally loud song, produced in most species by the rapid buckling and unbuckling of drumlike tymbals. They typically live in trees, feeding on watery sap from xylem tissue and laying their eggs in a slit in the bark…."

You fall asleep to him working on his desk. too exhausted to feel contrite over the fact that you found such peace in the rumble of his voice. 

The moment you fall asleep his voice trails off and goes silent, he's confused. What just happened? he places the brown cicada down and walks upstairs. The smell of wax never fades from the town he calls home but it gets lighter as he walks up the stairs. Natural light streams through windows.

Lester greets him with a smile, sitting on the stained green love seat, hand around the neck of a bottle. The reruns of a show flash through moments of static on their TV.

The wooden decaying awning creaks at his sitting on a bench. Still watching her jump around in the dog happiness he wishes he could experience. 

So simple.

He makes a humming sound, drinking, and Vincent watches Jonsey run around the overgrown yard in silence. 

Lester calls. "More in the cooler if you want." He knows he won't take a beer. The taste is disgusting. He came up here for space away from the problem inhabiting it currently.

You had whimpered all through the explanation of the wax figure. He had talked to you. An act that usually came hard to him seemed to come naturally at that moment.

"Girl isn't giving you any trouble?"

He has your poetry book in the room he stuffs all their 'guest' belongings. The room is overflowing with clothes and useless trinkets, after No had peeled the dress off of you Vincent had collected your things and flung them carelessly into the room. The book he recalls was an antique looking thing with pressed cover of a gold leaf frog. Why didn't he burn it with the rest of the junk seemed too useless?

You were nestled on that dog bed, an unnecessarily demeaning place suggested by Bo, staring blankly at the wall likely planning to escape like the rest of them. A rat caught by the tail in a sewer drain clawing desperately at lightsource

'I'm alone…..talk to me.' And words spilled out of his lips, more than he had spoken in his thirty plus years of life. Probably, more sentences he had ever even spoken to his own brothers. He hadn't felt forced or anything it came naturally.

He can't wrap his head around it.

"No." he answers after Lester had forgotten about his question.

The sound of the front door shutting is muted. But in this house everything echoes. "Must be Bo." 

Who else can it be except his brother. Lester had pried out of you the fact that you had no family or connections to the outside world. None to search for you. Insanely stupid on your part for a woman alone with an uknown man.

Bo must have gone straight downstairs to where you were so he heads upstairs to the junk room, something kept telling him that the poetry book might help him understand you better. 

He finds it in pieces but still legible.

Walls are thin. You had said that you could hear cicadas well he could hear the bell on your collar ringing.

His brother must have been very frustrated today because it lasts for more than a few hours rather than the usual hour.

He studies the cover again, the lovely design of a comforting frog sitting on a lily pad with pants on comically fishing. But he doesn't open it yet wants to wait until it's night and he's alone with his thoughts

A troubled wail of pain/pleasure travels up to him. Vincent sits cross legged on the floor and flips through, not reading, anticipating for night to come 

_______________________________________________

_ They talk about what they were going to do. How long it's been since the last lay. Bo can't stop looking at her peaceful face as Lester reads the news beside him. What made this meat sack different from the other meat sacks. Nothing. _

_ Maybe it was her eyes. They did say eyes are the window to the soul _


	5. Chapter 5

The next day is the same, and so is the next and the next. You try not to make it obvious the way you try and worm into him. Careful. You've seen what the man is capable of. He's lifted adult bodies off the ground and carried them downstairs without braking in sweat.

Limiting to two or three questions a day but so far the only thing that's changed has been the length of your chain.

That and a rubber ball Vincent tossed at you one morning. Blue to contrast to jonsey's red rubber ball. God, It be humiliating if you weren't so fucking grateful to have something to do. It's a 'thoughtful' gift you thank him for while Inwardly rejoicing, taking this as a sign that you're getting closer to him.

He did not react to your gratitude, if he had been flustered under the wax mask you would not know.

You lie on the side of the little bed after swallowing a disgusting amount of cum courtesy of Bo, throwing the ball up and catching then throwing again.

Jonsey is upstairs, you can hear her paws on wood and a male voice coo at her, not Bo, he'd barely left you sore and aching thirty minutes ago and of course not Vincent. It's the other brother that gave you a ride here….Dexter? Lester? whatever his name is, he's the one that landed you in this hellscape. And therefore earns a hearty amount of ire.

You stop bouncing the ball and squeeze down until your hand aches. A scowl tightening your features.

Thinking back he'd been so charming too, laughing at the awkward silence and indulging in some knowledge of bone whistles. The bumpy dirt ride here was light.

You remember being cautious of the stranger but taken back by the goofy smile he gave you. The pretty blue eyes and lilting drawl.

_ 'To be or not to be, that is the question.' _

You are a fool.

Vincent appears out of nowhere, inturupting your thoughts. you sit up, chain and bell both rattling. You notice he has something in his hand which he places pages open on the desk as to not lose his place. A familiar book.

To your delight He unhooks the chain.

Your involuntary whimper of the joy you were unable to choke down stops him momentarily. You turn away hunching your back in sudden wariness at having broken the unspoken promise between you two to not utter a sound to each other. 

Like you said, it's best not to push him. He stands for a moment, then wraps the chain around his forearm and tugs you up.

The trembling of your legs and the emptiness of your stomach makes it hard, damned if you'd let that stop you. If you had to sit another second with Bo's crusty cum on your thighs you'd bash your head into the brick wall.

It's the usual routine, you assume, He starts the water and you clamber in, tossing off the ratty shirt and not daring to look at the mirror's reflection. The one sandwich a day meals took a toll on your body. Your hands are scary, needle thin with bumps of bone visible. It would kill you to see the rest of the change.

Submerged in the cool water you sigh and enjoy the sensation of not cleanliness, the events can't be washed off, but less dirtier than before, scrubbing off the cum stains, flaky and disgusting. The only reprieve you have.

You don't notice Vincent still at the doorway obscured by the shower glass. Tilting his head as he observed the obscured form of the captive. You hum and scrub raw at what you can reach moving around the collar. 

You spoth him in the corner of your eye, stop scrubbing. The foggy glass that separates you both is a fragile blanket of security you have. The faucets trickling becomes a distant bell.

Despite the fact he hasn't shown any interest in fucking you, the churning in your stomach is constant reminder to not push too far. He's capable of inflicting pain and terror worse than his brother. 

You shut your eyes.

Another part of you snaps that you swore days ago that you'd get out of here using any means necessary, if he wants to have sex with you, it's a good thing. Isn't it?!

You are already tainted by Bo and tossed aside by society like a garbage bag at a city dump. Your body is your only weapon, Use it against him at his most vulnerable…..

When you open them with renewed determination he is nowhere to be found.

_________________________________

From the shadows in an upstairs room he tries to ignore the sighs and moans. It's a typical thing for both he and Lester to make themselves scarce when Bo is in one of his sour moods.

There were plenty of captives that fulfilled the same role as you. Both make and female. Was he twenty three when they took in the first one? 

None were quiet as loud as you are. The whole house shook with your complicated pleasure/ pained wails. The slap of flush, The slick noises… his cheeks flush. It gets embarrassing as Bo's growls echoed.

Then it's dinner courtesy of Lester

He reads each poem word for word, you highlighted some sentences and it made him wonder what from this line did you want to remember. Concentrating on the rythmic pulse of poetry rather than the bruising on your skin. The awful way you looked at him. 

He's aware of his size, the strength of his arms he cultivated, as a child he'd been treated as a plague, his appearance is terrifying which is why his brothers do the catching... however, that look…. Wide glassy eyes plain to see through the fogged glass. So new and electric, inspiring a wave of complicated emotions. You feared him not as a monster, but as a man like any other.

And as much as a part of him yearned to be regarded as such, with the current implications lumping him with what Bo is doing, He'd rather remain a monster.

The shower door slides audibly. And soft footsteps sound, your hair still wet and eyes holding that lingering unsurety from before.

He skirts around her, not wanting to add fuel to her fear of him, a frightened deer.

"I'm finished." You call meekly. Clutching the towel to your chest.

Then your lips twitch into a nervous smile, nodding at the book forgotten in his hand

"When I was small there was this old lady who would throw garage sales every Saturday. And my grandma would walk over and see what she had, it was the oddest collection of things, dresses, clown statues, Hindu paintings, a coloring box full of dead butterflies. Among all that I found a book full of pretty poems. I was six and could hardly understand half the words but something about the moth bitten cover told me. This is special." You pluck the edge of your towel while an odd pitter patter starts in his chest. 

"I really recommend page 38. You'll like it."

  
  


_ The long-haired man waxed you clean of hair but the pain is easy to ignore and so is the sting of rope around your hands. The surrealism of this situation is nauseating. Chained to a chair and stripped naked against your will in front of a complete stranger, your throat hurts from screaming with all your might for help despite knowing the town above is abandoned and there is no use in wasting energy. The man had smeared some kind of glue to keep your lips shut. _

_ You couldn't summon a smudge of shame when he got to your pussy, still feeling foggy and reeling from the drastic change of situation.  _

_ The last thing you remember is...is...riding in the passenger seat of a car. The sun burning your jeans and the sky such a lovely shade of blue. The driver had been telling you a joke. _

_ After that, you hit a blank wall. How did you end up here? _

_ You look down to the top of his head as his breath tickles your thigh. The pain of his quick peal of the wax developed into a muffled shriek, tears form.  _

_ The man looks up. _

_ His face is off. Through the veil of tears, you guess it's a mask because of its unnatural appearance. Cold and uncanny. Despite the fact you can't see his eyes in the black sockets he seems to be contemplating you. _

_ Unable to hold his eyes a moment longer you shut your eyes tight but the hot smear of wax and the ripping sensation keep you from floating away entirely. _

_ You don't know what he will do to you. Hopefully, it will be a quick end _ .


End file.
